


What Happens on Xooberon Stays on Xooberon

by A_Little_Boosh_Maid



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Alien Planet, Best Friends, Episode: s02e04 Fountain of Youth, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Slash, Oral Sex, Sexual Slavery, Slice of Life, smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-20 19:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16561922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Little_Boosh_Maid/pseuds/A_Little_Boosh_Maid
Summary: Just something I needed to write out of my system, because sometimes the characters keep asking for something, and you have to give it to them, or you'll get no peace and can't write anything else. It's about Howard's time as Vince's slave on Xooberon, and is written as canon-compliant.





	What Happens on Xooberon Stays on Xooberon

The worst thing about being a slave, Howard thought, is that you work without being paid.

Then he realised that was just the definition of being a slave, not the worst thing. He tried again.

The worst thing about being a slave is the hours, he decided. Then again, some of the minutes were alright, and he'd had a good few seconds that were an absolute pleasure. That couldn't be the worst thing.

The worst thing about being a slave is the humiliating outfit I have to wear, he thought, looking down at it. I mean, a loincloth with leather choker and chains! What kind of sick bastard would force me to wear that all day? He swallowed, knowing exactly which sick bastard had selected his slave costume.

It was embarrassing having to wear a loincloth, Howard fretted. He'd put on a little weight since leaving the zoo – less physical activity, and besides, he was older now. He felt a bit insecure about his rounder stomach, and more generous manboobs. Normally they could be hidden away under clothing, but there was no disguising them now: they were out for everyone to see.

Then again, the loincloth did show off his shapely legs, Howard thought. He stretched them out in front so he could admire his own strong yet willowy limbs. He'd always had a great set of pegs. And the loincloth was flattering to his hot pumpkin arse. He couldn't actually see his own arse, but he could feel that it looked good. So the loincloth wasn't all bad.

It was practical too, in this hot climate – for all intents and purposes, he was naked, keeping him cooler. And there were no folds of cloth swirling around to hamper him as he worked. He couldn't complain about that. Howard toyed with the idea that the loincloth had been chosen for purely pragmatic and benevolent reasons. He abandoned the thought almost at once.

No, the _worst_ thing about being a slave was that bloody song, he thought angrily, listening to it for the forty millionth time.

The singing was neverending, an endless and almost tuneless, monotonous wailing. _I love The Chosen One, loving him is so much fun_. The lyrics were infantile, and practically obscene, Howard thought in disgust. What kind of vain, narcissistic prat would listen to that all day and all night? How enormous, yet fragile, must his ego be to want this kind of ceaseless stroking? How empty and lonely must he be inside, to need such constant reassurance that he was loved?

Howard had to stop himself from going down this futile path of thought – it always ended in him feeling deeply sorry for the man. And there was nothing more pathetic than a slave pitying their captor, he told himself sternly. That's how you end up with Stockholm Syndrome, and before you know it, you're robbing banks in the name of the Electro Liberation Army.

Not that there were any banks to rob in this desert; that was probably a bad example, Howard thought. He couldn't imagine where the Stockholm Syndrome might lead him, but nowhere good, he was sure of that. He couldn't take the risk of getting emotionally entangled, even as far as feeling sorry for him.

At that moment, the main flap on the tent opened, and his captor slouched in with the easy cat-like grace that Howard found deeply annoying. Why couldn't he walk normally, like everyone else?

"Hi Howard, have you finished peeling my grapes yet?".

No, Howard had been wrong. _This_ was the worst thing about being a slave. That he had been enslaved on an alien planet by his best friend Vince, a slimy, treacherous bastard who had thrown aside decades of loyal companionship for the sake of some stupid amulet that meant he was now regarded as The Chosen One by a tribe of nomadic blue-skinned nutters.

"Not quite", said Howard disapprovingly.

"You're taking ages, I like my slave to work faster", grinned Vince.

Vince sprawled on the bed, which was actually just masses and masses of rugs, blankets, and coverings in a pile on the ground: the tent floor was strewn with carpets. Vince had lost some weight since leaving the zoo – he was the kind of person who only gets hungry when they're active, so he ate less now. His white flares clung to his narrow hips, leaving nothing to the imagination, while his black blouse was loose, so that in the position he was lying, Howard could see right down to his navel, and the line of dark hair on his flat stomach. The stupid amulet hung around his neck.

"I prefer to think of myself as your valet", said Howard pompously.

"Leave it out, Jeeves", giggled Vince. "If you're in chains you're a bleeding slave, you berk".

Vince twisted his fingers into his dark hair, and messed around with a peacock feather, gazing at Howard through it, then giving it a flirtatious little twirl while fluttering his absurdly long eyelashes, as if he was a B-Grade Cleopatra. Howard was oblivious to this byplay, and just thought how appropriate that Vince kept holding a peacock feather, a symbol of his own vanity.

"You know, slavery has been outlawed in Britain since the 19th century", lectured Howard.

"So for most of history it was absolutely fine, then", yawned Vince. "If it was great for thousands of years, and only wrong for a couple of hundred, overall we must be in favour of it".

"Every civilised nation considers slavery an abhorrent practice", went on Howard, in the dogged manner of someone who has this conversation at least once a day.

"Mm, but we're on a different planet now, with different customs", said Vince lazily. "We should try to fit in with what's normal on Xooberon, and not be ... cultishly intensive".

"Culturally insensitive", Howard corrected him.

"Yeah that and all", said Vince. "Are my grapes ready yet, Howard?".

There was a childish whine to his voice now that meant he'd been waiting long enough, so Howard stopped stalling and brought the bowl of peeled grapes over with a put-upon air.

"Feed me my grapes, Howard", ordered Vince, propping himself higher on a bank of silken pillows.

"What? You can't even feed yourself now?", Howard said in a temper. "What are you, an invalid?".

"I don't want to get my hands all sticky", smiled Vince. "I gave my gloves away ... to someone in great need".

"Alright, alright", sulked Howard.

He didn't want to hear _that_ particular story again, which not only proved that Vince really was The Chosen One by the laws of this loony land, but made Vince look generous and brave, and involved a disgusting amount of demonic bodily fluids.

Howard sat close by Vince on the bed, feeding him grapes one by one. Vince kept opening his mouth like a baby bird being fed, his blue eyes wide and deceptively innocent as he looked up at Howard for the next morsel. Howard was very aware of the feel of Vince's soft pink lips as he placed each grape between them. As Howard's fingers became sticky from grapes, Vince began licking the juice from them with each bite, and even sucking on his long fingers to ensure not a drop of moisture escaped.

"Mm, yummy", smiled Vince. It was unclear whether he was talking about the grapes or Howard's fingers.

"Can I have some grapes too, Vince?", asked Howard. It was hot and dry in the desert, and he was thirsty.

"You have to call me by my title, The Chosen One", Vince drawled. "Either that, or Master".

Howard looked furious, so Vince added, "Call me by my proper name, or you can't have any grapes".

Due to his thirst, Howard said, "Please may I have some grapes, _Master_?", managing to inject the maximum amount of insolence into the final word.

"'Course you can, Howard", said Vince, as if surprised Howard thought he even had to ask. "You peeled them after all. You deserve at least half".

Howard was ashamed of how grateful he felt at being told he was allowed to eat half the grapes he had prepared. You see, this is how Stockholm Syndrome starts, he told himself as he ate the grapes. Your captor lets you have regular loo breaks or a glass of water, and suddenly you're licking his boots in ecstasy and telling the police he deserves some sort of humanitarian award, rather than prison.

A little picture of Howard licking Vince's boots came into his mind, and he was troubled that the image did not exactly displease him. They were rather nice white cowboy boots, and Vince always kept his clothes and shoes preternaturally clean.

After Howard finished his grapes and washed his hands and face, it was time for him to straighten Vince's hair. He would have gone to his death rather than admit it out loud, but this was almost his favourite thing about being Vince's slave.

Vince had never let Howard touch his hair before, and there had once been an unpleasant incident when Howard gave it an affectionate ruffle, and Vince had become incredibly angry with him. They had ended up in a real fight, with Vince saying nasty, hurtful things to him, and claiming that Howard had made an awful mess of his hair. Which was ridiculous – if anything, it had looked delectably wind-blown, or alluringly bed-tousled, not that he would say that to Vince when he was in a mood. After that, Howard had learnt his lesson and been careful not to touch it again.

But now he wasn't just permitted to touch Vince's hair, it was actually his duty to do so. He tried not to seem too eager as he switched on the hair straightener to let it warm up for a minute or two.

Before straightening Vince's hair, Howard allowed himself the pleasure of running his fingers through it. It was surprisingly soft and silky. He pretended that he was arranging the hair, or combing it with his fingers, and that this was a necessary task. He leaned forward just a little, putting his face slightly closer, and breathed in lightly ...

"Hey are you sniffing my hair or something?", Vince asked.

"No", Howard lied. "I thought I saw a grey hair".

"What? I can't get grey hairs", said Vince in a panic. "I'm only twenty ... twenty-one".

"It was an illusion", Howard reassured him. "Just a ray of light on it".

"Well pull all the tent flaps closed then", said a perturbed Vince. "I don't want any light shining on me, making me look old and haggard before my time, like you".

If Vince hadn't added those last two words, Howard might have told him that he actually looked very youthful. Instead he pursed his lips, and said nothing. He concentrated on straightening Vince's hair, being very careful not to pull on it; it was difficult with the tent so much darker. He couldn't really see what he was doing.

"This dry desert wind is so harsh on my hair", moaned Vince. "Use some root booster on it, and back comb it to give it some volume".

"I just leave my hair natural", said Howard, as he followed Vince's instructions.

"Yeah and see how that turned out", muttered Vince.

Once Vince was happy with his hair, it was time for Howard to do his make-up. Howard had at first balked at doing Vince's make-up as he hadn't had any experience in it, and feared looking a fool. But Vince had persuaded him that it was well easy, and in the end Howard had decided that it was just another practical skill to learn.

Howard prided himself on being a quick learner, was clever with his fingers, and had a natural artistic taste, so it hadn't taken very long before he was able to apply make-up to Vince's satisfaction. Vince had been a good teacher too – he never got impatient, made light of any little errors, and gave very clear instructions. Howard would never say that to him though.

It was a new experience to sit so close to Vince and look at his face. Not that Howard didn't look at Vince normally, but he tended to give him shifty little glances when he thought Vince wasn't looking. Now he was just inches from him, peering at every tiny detail. Howard didn't think it was necessary for Vince to wear make-up to look good, but reasoned it was like him wearing a moustache – he didn't require one, but thought it suited him, and his face would feel naked without it now.

"Do you really need more make-up?", asked Howard, as he carefully outlined Vince's eyes with kohl. "I mean, I already put it on earlier".

"Just a touch up of the old slap", said Vince. "I need to look my best before going out: I can't let my people down by appearing before them looking like a slob".

"Your people?", said Howard in disbelief. "Who are you, the Queen Mum?".

"I'm far more important than that", said Vince. "I'm The Chosen One. This tribe worships me, and their faith would be shaken if I went out with messy hair or smudged eyeliner".

"I suppose they're going to be all over you, as usual", said Howard in displeasure, before launching into a mocking imitation. " _Oh Chosen One, please touch my hand_. _Oh Chosen One, please let me sit close to you_. _Oh Chosen One, please take me into your tent and give me a good bumming_ ".

As Vince stood up, he looked at Howard thoughtfully. There had been real venom in his voice, and Vince didn't know why.

"Who is it that you're jealous of, Howard?", he asked. "I can't tell if you wish you were me, or wish you were them".

Howard only looked affronted by this piercing insight, so Vince tried to be more helpful. As he opened the flap of the tent to leave, he looked back and said, "You've got two more crows's feet since yesterday. It doesn't matter – it just makes you look more ... experienced. But if it bothers you, you should use some Oil of Ulay". He waved goodbye as he left.

And then Howard knew the answer, what the worst thing about being a slave was: it was all his own bloody fault. If he hadn't had a crisis about looking older than his age, they would never have gone looking for The Fountain of Youth in the first place, would never have come to the Xooberon desert, and Vince would never have been recognised as The Chosen One, making Howard his slave. It was mandatory for The Chosen One to have a slave, and Vince would only allow Howard to care for his personal needs, nobody else. By taking Howard as his slave, Vince had saved his life, because Howard was now under the protection of The Chosen One.

Howard lit the lamps for the evening, and began tidying the tent. Truth be told, he actually did less work for Vince as his slave than in their normal life together. Howard didn't have to cook here, someone in the tribe took care of that, and there was minimal housework in a tent. When he'd finished tidying up, Howard would sit down, his tasks done for the day, and have a nice rest in preparation for his evening tasks. He'd murder for a cup of proper tea though.

The sound of the music came clearly on the still night air as the tribe chanted the song for the fifty millionth time. If only it wasn't such an earworm, Howard thought glumly. He'd never get it out of his head.

_I love him with my heart, I love him with my body parts ..._

************************************************

"How was your evening?", Howard asked, as Vince slipped quietly into the tent.

"Oh you know. The usual", Vince said vaguely.

"The usual" had been the tribe clustered around him, eager for his touch or the slightest attention from him. One had slit his own throat in despair because The Chosen One had not blessed him sufficiently, while another had plucked out one of his eyes because it had offended The Chosen One.

Vince didn't want them to do these things, and was always telling the tribe they didn't have to do them. The man with the slit throat had merely been nudged a little out of Vince's space, while he now regretted asking the one-eyed man what he was staring at. Sometimes Vince wondered if having a Chosen One was healthy for the tribe, and he felt uncomfortable when he really thought about it. Luckily he didn't think about it very much. He hadn't _asked_ for any of this.

"You do know that you're drunk with power, don't you?", said Howard.

"Yeah, it's better than a flirtini", grinned Vince.

"You've gone a bit wrong", said Howard, with a touch of genuine concern in his voice.

Vince became bored when Howard went on like this, as he did almost every night. Howard didn't seem to realise that Vince had always felt he was The Chosen One, and now he was. At least, he had always felt special, and as if he had been marked out for some extraordinary fate. It might sound a bit arrogant, but he had known since he was a child he would be famous one day, or hold a position of great power. He had simply embraced his destiny.

After a moment's reflection, he decided it hadn't been arrogant at all, because it actually happened. But he did feel like some distraction from the burdens of being The Chosen One, and he looked at Howard, whose job it was to distract him.

Vince absolutely loved Howard's slave costume, which left his body mostly exposed. Howard tended to cover up under layers of shirts and jumpers and cardigans and jackets, and here he was, free for Vince to ogle whenever he liked, day or night. Vince unconsciously ran his tongue around his lips, taking in Howard's luscious torso, which if anything, was now more desirable since it had become slightly softer and cuddlier. He thought Howard had a fantastic set of tits.

Vince came closer to Howard, and ran his hands over Howard's smooth chest.

"Don't touch me", Howard said. He meant his voice to sound harsh, but it came out a bit panicky.

"You're my slave, I can do whatever I like with you", said Vince teasingly.

He lightly traced his fingers around Howard's nipples, watching them stiffen. Vince wanted to suck on them, but he also had to be a slave master, and thought he might lose some dignity sucking at his slave's teat – it was an almost grovelling, and certainly dependent, gesture. If you acted as if you _needed_ your slave, then they were the one in control. Vince needed his slave. Desperately.

It was hard being a slave master really, even more difficult than being The Chosen One. You had to be strict, but on the other hand, you had to be kind as well, unless you were planning on being the evil kind of slave master that tortures or bullies his slaves into submission. Vince wasn't sure he got the balance quite right. It was even harder if your slave was your best friend, and a bit touchy by nature. To be fair, Vince acknowledged that perhaps it was only natural being enslaved had made Howard grumpier than usual.

He stopped caressing Howard's nipples, because even though they were stiff, Howard was looking stressed, and continuing on with it might have been cruel. It had long been Vince's fantasy to have Howard under his complete control so that he could do whatever he wanted with him, but now that the fantasy had come true, he discovered it was a rather empty pleasure.

What Vince really wanted was for Howard to come to him of his own free will, but unfortunately he was a slave now, and didn't have any free will. Even if Howard told Vince that he was in love with him and begged for them to be together, Vince would never know if that's what he really wanted, or if Howard was doing it to please his master, or to get more freedom, or some other reason.

Vince decided he'd had enough of all this thinking, it was doing his head in.

"Come here, Howard; it's time for you to wash my balls", he commanded, unzipping his white flares.

"Now, I draw the line at that", said Howard shiftily.

"Every night you say you draw the line at it, and every night you end up doing it", said Vince, undoing the button on his trousers. "How about you go heat up some water, and stop wasting time?".

Howard sighed, and began heating the water while he fetched the washing things.

"I don't see why it's necessary for me to do quite so much washing", Howard said in a mutinous tone.

"It's hot and sandy here, I need to keep clean", said Vince reasonably.

"But why do _I_ \- ", began Howard, before Vince cut him off.

"Because you're the slave. It's your job to take care of my needs".

Howard muttered under his breath as he got everything ready.

"And take off your choker and chains for the night", Vince added.

As a kind slave master, he wouldn't want his slave to be uncomfortable while he worked. Also, the chains might clank and be distracting, or rub against Vince's skin. Howard carefully removed the leather choker and chains, which were more for show than anything else, and put them neatly in a pile, so he could attach them again in the morning. Vince took off his stupid amulet.

Vince stripped off his trousers and pants, and sat on the end of the bed. Howard brought over the brass bowl of warm water, and sat in front of him, before dipping his hands into the water and carefully soaping Vince's balls, using a silk cloth. Howard had never done a slapdash job in his life, and he was thorough and patient at this one.

Vince looked down, enjoying watching Howard's big hands tenderly cup his balls, his long fingers gently cleaning them. Howard's hands were so large that he could hold both Vince's balls in the palm of one, while the other stroked them with the wet silk.

Not long after Vince began consciously fancying his best friend, he became aware that Howard was careful with everything he touched, and did everything properly, no matter how unimportant it might seem. He noticed that Howard's hands were not only strong, but incredibly tender. It was probably then that he realised he didn't just fancy Howard, he was falling in love with him.

Howard took the brass bowl of warm water away, and began softly drying Vince's balls on a velvet cloth. Vince's cock was hard by now, but Howard wouldn't pay it any attention until he had done his job and finished cleaning Vince's balls. For someone like Vince, whose mind lightly jumped from one subject to another, and occasionally stopped working altogether, Howard's level of concentration on the task at hand seemed almost supernatural, as if he had Jedi Master levels of mind control.

But at last everything was done and put away, and Howard lightly grasped Vince's cock, giving Vince a questioning look. Awaiting his orders.

What Vince really wanted was for Howard to toss him off; Howard was incredibly talented with his hands. He seemed in fact almost suspiciously talented, and sometimes Vince speculated that Howard had a secret life where he hung around men's bogs at railway stations, and gave handjobs to lonely businessmen for spare change. It didn't seem that far-fetched – Howard's real life appeared so boring that he surely needed a secret one, so he didn't go completely round the twist.

Unfortunately, Howard was _too_ good at giving handjobs – Vince knew from experience he would only last about twenty seconds that way, forty at most. He didn't want the whole thing to be over in less than a minute. He generally asked Howard to use his hands on him first thing in the morning instead, to start the day. Howard never seemed to mind, as if proud of his skill.

Vince gestured for Howard to kneel in front of him on the carpeted floor; Howard knew by now what that meant. He began licking Vince's cock, running his tongue over his balls as well, as if to ensure they really were clean. Vince could feel Howard's moustache tickling as it brushed him, which always made him want to wriggle and giggle, but if he did that, Howard would stop, so he forced himself to remain quiet and still. Howard licked slowly and patiently, holding Vince's cock firmly yet tenderly, which was driving Vince barmy.

It seemed an interminable wait before Howard finally placed the head of Vince's cock in his mouth, and gave it an experimental suck. Vince let out a small groan: it felt as if Howard was snogging his cock, making Vince think about what would it feel like to have Howard's lips against his. Howard sucked on the end of Vince's cock until precum started running down it. Vince always produced a prodigious amount of this fluid, which is why he was known as The Juicy Dangler. Most people couldn't handle it, but Howard continued patiently licking it up with his tongue, swirling around the head as he sucked on Vince, going deeper and deeper the wetter Vince became.

Vince leaned forward and held onto Howard, stroking his fine messy brown hair. Vince's lips grazed Howard's cheekbone, as he quietly moaned against his ear that Howard was amazing, he was genius, please don't stop, please Howard. Vince knew he couldn't keep this up, or he would soon do something stupid, like kiss Howard's neck, with his fingers tangled in his hair. He would tell Howard that he loved him, that he had always loved him, that he needed Howard, that he couldn't live without him. And then Howard would stop, and never do this again.

Vince lay back on the bed, away from temptation. His hips writhed and arched, his fingers dug into the bedding, he moaned over and over again that Howard was sending him fucking mental. His blouse rode up, leaving the lower part of his stomach bare, and Howard took a moment to lick from the navel to the pubic bone, down to the curly dark hair which always showed over the waistband of any trousers Vince wore, he wore them all so low slung.

Vince didn't know that drove Howard nuts, that any time Vince showed his stomach Howard was secretly drooling over it, imagining his big hand running down it, following the line of hair right into Vince's pants. Vince could be remarkably oblivious at times.

Vince couldn't remember if Howard had always been this good at sucking his cock, or if he had gradually taught Howard what he liked, so that Howard now did exactly what Vince wanted without any prompting. The other possibility was that Vince himself had been gradually trained to love everything that Howard did with his mouth. He couldn't remember, he didn't care. How long had they been on Xooberon; was it days or weeks or months? He didn't know, he didn't care.

Vince suddenly realised that he was being a weak slave master: there'd been far too much moaning and pleading and giving himself entirely to Howard. It was time for him to assert his dominance.

Vince stood up, and said, "Lie on the bed, slave. I want to fuck your beautiful mouth".

Fuck, Vince thought. I didn't mean to say _beautiful mouth_ , just _mouth_. Why don't I have any filter on my fucking mind-tank?

Howard didn't react though, but lay obediently on the bed, saying, "Yes, Master", in a meek voice.

Vince was gutted by that. He thought Howard was making it clear he was only doing it because he was a slave, because Vince was forcing him into it. Possibly that was what Howard told himself, who knows?

Vince straddled Howard's chest, and held his own cock as he shoved it again and again into Howard's mouth. He could have done with a headboard or even a wall to hold onto, but Howard helpfully angled his mouth to make it easier, and held Vince by the hips to support him. Vince watched his own cock between Howard's lips, forcing it right down to the back of his throat with each push. He could hear Howard make little gagging sounds, but Howard's mouth remained soft and responsive, and he was still sucking on Vince determinedly.

Vince thought Howard had almost superhuman powers of endurance, but you know, it's true what they say about trumpet players.

Fuck Howard had a beautiful mouth, oh fuck, his lips, his tongue. He'd be fucking genius to kiss, Vince could just imagine his mouth pressed against Howard's, his tongue in his mouth, how Howard would open himself to Vince so easily. He loved Howard's mouth, his little brown eyes, his handsome lived-in face. His big strong hands which had such a gentle touch, his fantastic tits, oh wow, everything everything. He'd be an amazing fuck, Vince thought. He'd be incredible, he _is_ incredible ... oh fuck.

Oh fuck yes.

Yes.

Oh fuck.

Oh.

Fuck.

Yes.

Vince pulled out of Howard with a wet noise, hoping he hadn't said most of that out loud. Howard was still licking the tip of Vince's cock, as if unwilling for even a drop of moisture to escape him.

"Good slave", Vince said, kissing Howard on his brow. (Vince was a kind slave master).

"Do I get a reward, Master?", asked Howard.

"Yes Howard: you can do it all again tomorrow", Vince assured him.

It is a matter for debate whether this is what Howard had in mind, but he didn't seem unhappy to hear it.

"Take my boots off, slave", ordered Vince, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. He had removed his trousers and pants, but left his boots on.

Howard got off the bed and knelt down. He leaned over, putting his mouth a little closer, just for a second ...

"Hey are you licking my boots or something?", Vince asked.

"No, I thought I saw a smudge on them. It was only a shadow", Howard said shiftily. He pulled the white cowboy boots off Vince's feet.

"Do you want a drink of water, Howard?", asked Vince.

"Thanks, Vince, that would be nice".

Vince poured Howard a cup of cold water from the brass ewer beside the bed, and watched him drink it.

"Do you need to go to the loo?".

"Not right now, thanks Vince. Maybe later".

Vince got into bed, pulling Howard in beside him. Because there was only one bed, so where else could Howard sleep? Vince wasn't the evil kind of slave master who makes his slave sleep on the floor. Besides, the desert nights were cold, and Vince needed Howard to keep him warm.

There was a long (not very proud) tradition of slave owners taking their slaves as bed warmers. The usual choice was a barely pubescent girl, but I bet there were plenty like Vince who preferred a big strong man in his mid to late twenties with facial hair. I mean, he would seriously keep you warmer. It just got left out of history books and the Bible and stuff.

Vince snuggled into Howard's arms, and put his head against Howard's chest. Being with Howard always made him feel safe, even in the middle of a desert, even on a distant planet. He kissed Howard on the cheek, then lightly kissed each of his nipples, before giving them a gentle suck. Howard's tits were just as yummy as the previous night, and afterwards Howard stroked Vince's hair affectionately. Vince didn't mind Howard messing up his hair, now it was his job to fix it again in the morning.

"Vince?".

"Yeah?".

"If we ever get home again - ".

"You mean, _when_ we get home again", Vince corrected him.

"When we get home, can we keep this part to ourselves? A sort of ... _What happens on Xooberon stays on Xooberon_ clause?".

"You mean we'd pretend this never happened, and everything would be the way it was before?".

"Um, yeah. Pretty much".

"Sure Howard", said Vince sadly. "Isn't that what we always do?".

They lay in bed together, safe and warm in each other's arms, listening to the tribe sing the song for the sixty-millionth time.

_I love The Chosen One, loving him is fun, fun, fun ..._

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for the story is Howard's comment to Vince in "Party", when he backs away from the fact that Vince kissed him, by saying, "Hey, what happens on the roof stays on the roof". He says it in a very glib, practised manner that made me wonder how many other times Howard had denied intimate moments between he and Vince the same way. Had he also said, "What happens at the zoo stays at the zoo", or "What happens on the island stays on the island", for example?
> 
> For the backstory to the incident where Vince attacked Howard for touching his hair, told from Vince's point of view, see "Last Night at the Zooniverse".
> 
> For a description of how Vince began falling in love with Howard after watching him work with his hands, see "Of Men and Muses".


End file.
